


The Strong Kisses of a King

by Starbrow



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: M/M, queer Pevensies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 14:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16138919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starbrow/pseuds/Starbrow
Summary: Caspian and Peter have some unfinished business.





	The Strong Kisses of a King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/gifts).



“Sir,” said Caspian, “there is _one_ more thing I’d like to see. Now that I’m dead...it must be a right thing to want?”

Great golden eyes blinked at him. “Thing, my son?”

Caspian looked away. “All right. More a _person_ than a thing.”

You never quite knew when Aslan was laughing at you, when he got all quiet and rumbly. “The truth becomes you, Son of Adam. It is a right person to want.”

Caspian almost smiled. “He was your King first.”

Experiment House was almost gone from view, the world fading beneath them. Aslan padded the clouds. “Five minutes was enough to set things to right here,” he said, and Caspian waited, afraid that that would be all that he’d have. Would it be better or worse to see him for five minutes and then let him go again forever?

Relief came without excruciating delay. “Five hours must be enough to settle the scores between you,” said Aslan. This time, he was definitely laughing.

-

A humble cottage emerged from the mists. If Caspian thought it a poor dwelling for a King of Narnia, he made no such murmuring. His thoughts were all for the King himself.

He went to knock on the door of the cottage. But it opened anyways, revealing the youth behind it. His face had the look of a king and a warrior. 

“Peter,” said Caspian. To the naked eye, they were both very much as they’d been, the day they’d met; the day of their victory, when they’d stripped off armor and grappled skin-to-skin, sheened with sweat and overheating. They looked not a day older than those carefree youths.

But he’d had a whole life, a good life, a full one, marred only by the short time he’d had with his son. He should be in Narnia still, not reborn a youth, able to feel these feelings again. He understood now how Peter must have felt, returning to this world, returning to Narnia a boy again.

Peter stared. “King Peter,” said Caspian, experimentally. “Your Ma-”

“Shut up, you ass,” said Peter, and reached for him, pulled him through the door, put Caspian’s back against it with a slam, and promptly got to work shutting him up himself.

Caspian shut up.

His fingers curled in Peter’s hair, shorter than the last time he’d seen him. Still, It was long enough to grip, to pull him closer so that Caspian could slide his tongue against Peter’s and budge a knee up between parted thighs. His body seemed to know exactly what to do, how to leap with anticipation at the hard press of Peter’s body against him, pushing him into the door. Scores of years since he’d felt it didn’t seem to matter. Caspian surrendered thought and made himself fully flesh, a young man again with a young man’s wants.

Peter let out a short, amused breath against his chin. “So quickly,” he observed. His thigh rubbed knowingly. “You’re too easy, Caspian.”

Caspian felt his cheeks heating. “I haven’t been young in a long time,” he said, with a young man’s defense of his weaknesses.

“Neither have I,” said Peter, and stopped talking.

There was the faintest rasp of stubble against Caspian’s jaw. He tilted more deeply, to feel the grounding sensation of Peter rough and real against his skin. Lips parted, admitting the warmth of tongue to tangle with. Slowly, Caspian began to feel tipsy with the wet rasp of Peter’s lapping tongue. He tugged at Peter’s hair. It wasn’t a _stop_ kind of tug. Just a little warning.

A warning that was hardly even necessary, given the urgency of Caspian’s arousal where Peter was rubbing. Was it possible to feel _too_ alive? Would he drown in this feeling, after the sleepy haze of his last waning years?

“Don’t,” said Peter, his own warning. He pushed harder. His fingers dug in. No, Caspian wouldn’t drown. Peter wasn’t going to let go.

“I’m not here to stay.” Caspian nipped at the squared jawline. “We have five hours.”

“Then we’d better make them good,” said Peter crisply, and Caspian laughed and bit down harder.

-

How he’d missed his magnificent, maddening King. Every grip was a challenge, every step matched and bested. Caspian wanted Peter’s shirt off; his own must be wrested bodily to the floor before he had the great privilege of running his hands along the planes of Peter’s chest, taking in the lean muscles flanking hips and waist and shoulder. He couldn’t hide his own shivers when Peter raked nails over a nipple.

There were teeth around the shell of his ear. “You still like that,” Peter noted with satisfaction.

“Ass,” was Caspian’s eloquent retort.

“You offering?”

Caspian tackled him. 

Next moment, Caspian’s back was pressing into the bed, the breath knocked out of him, his hands pinned down, and Peter sitting squarely over his hips. The smug look on his face was agonizingly dear. Caspian huffed. “You’ve been practicing.”

“Rugby next year.”

“Whatby?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Caspian hoped whatever Peter was practicing for wouldn’t be quite like this, wouldn’t have the urgency of mouths and hips moving in tandem, and fingertips scraping down bare torsos, and obscenely strained trousers only getting in the way. And if it did, he hoped it wouldn’t be nearly this good.

With more fervor than grace, his hand cupped and squeezed through fabric. When he eked a groan for his efforts, Caspian hid his elation. So Peter was human after all. 

Somehow, buttons flicked open and layered cloth parted effortlessly. Human, but with reflexes fit for a god. Caspian didn’t hide his own groan. A strong hand closed around him. He gasped. “I’m not used to - ”

“I know,” Peter growled, and stroked him roughly.

A good distraction, finding the curious fastenings of Peter’s trousers, undoing them all by feel rather than sight. Warm flesh was Caspian’s reward. Another growl, lower, indistinct. Caspian clasped him tighter to feel the jump of the living member in his palm. Telltale wetness met his questing thumb.

“You’re not used to - ” said Caspian, almost in wonder.

Peter’s body collided with his. Words slid away. In their place, the hot, slick slide of their cocks, encircled with a tightly curled hand. Caspian thrust up into its embrace. Peter drove down. There was a fraction of an awkward, grappling moment where they struggled to move in time with each other - but it was like any of their other grappling: they’d always striven and scrapped and found the places the other was susceptible, and _pushed,_ and taken care. And somewhere in the mess of it all, they were in agreement.

It was embarrassingly quick. They only had five hours, but this was barely five minutes. Maybe ten. If he was being generous. Need crowded out pride. Caspian fell. He reached up and captured Peter’s mouth, that his cry of pleasure could get lost there, as he spilled over Peter’s hand. He closed his grip around Peter’s, feeling the splash of seed there, tightening the hold on the both of them. But it was the swipe of his thumb, almost adoring, that pulled Peter down with him only a few moments later. Such a little thing, the tender stroke across the taut arc of velvet, but it was enough. 

Caspian kissed him, to know such a thing about him.

Peter kissed him, so that they need say nothing for a while.

-

It was a good five hours. They made them good. Nobody could have argued a minute of it misspent, not even the ones when they sprawled drowsy and laconic in the painfully small guest bed of the Professor’s cottage. The room smelled unmistakably of sex. At some point, Peter mumbled his thankfulness that his host was gone for the weekend, so he would have time to air things out.

“I thought Lord Digory was a friend of Narnia,” Caspian murmured sleepily, draping a leg over the warm thigh beneath the sheets. He couldn’t afford to lose precious minutes in sleep. He must stay awake.

“There are friends of Narnia, and then there are things even Aslan shouldn’t know about,” Peter said sternly. Caspian had the impression Peter wasn’t only talking to him.

 _“Shouldn’t_ doesn’t seem to stop him,” he observed. His fingers idly traced the swell of Peter’s shoulder. “He knew we still had…”

“Unfinished business,” Peter agreed. His hand tightened on Caspian’s arm. “We always will.”

Somehow, even at the end of those five precious hours, Caspian believed that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Snacky for this incredible labor of love that has been the NFE for a glorious ten years. Here's to the next ten!


End file.
